


The Rum Rebellion

by anonymous_sibyl



Category: Smallville
Genre: Female Protagonist, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-20
Updated: 2007-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_sibyl/pseuds/anonymous_sibyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But he isn't here, and she's drunk, so all she can do is imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rum Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> This work is licensed under a [Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/). None of the media or characters written about in my fanfiction belong to me and I make no profit from these works. 

It's just… she's drunk. She has a boyfriend and she's drunk and all she can think of is him. Him with his dark hair and his muscles and his stupid, charming, innocent grin, and the way he saves the entire world and…

She's drunk. The empty rum bottle is lying next to her leg, her skirt is across the room, and she can't get out of her panties fast enough because, oh, god, all she can think of is him.

His hands should be rough from all the farm work he's done, but they aren't. That's probably some Kryptonian thing, how our Earth dirt can't touch him, how he's apart from everything. Except Lana, of course, he'd be right next to Lana if he could. And also maybe Lex.

And she has a boyfriend. And she's drunk. And he isn't really here.

All she can do is imagine his hands on her, parting her thighs, thumbs slipping up and over and… Panties off, tangled around her ankle and, fine, they can stay there. She can pretend he was in a rush, can feel the wind over her as he rushes in through her door and pushes her back down on the sofa.

"You like that, Chloe?"

God, yeah, she likes it. She always likes it.

"Touch yourself for me."

Her bra is still on, and her shirt, and her shoes, crazy high-heels she hates wearing but they make her legs look good and she wanted to be looked at tonight. The clothes don't matter as long as she can get to her cunt, fingers skimming over delicate skin, stroking through soft hairs.

She's in a rush, he'd want her to rush, so she cants her hips up and braces one leg on the back of the sofa so she can reach what she's after. She licks her index finger and gently, so gently, brushes it over her clit. Her cunt contracts and, yeah, thinking of him always does it for her.

She's got a good rhythm going, stroking over her clit, dipping down to her dripping cunt and back. "Clark," she whispers, touching herself again. "Oh, god, yeah, Clark."

More. She needs more and more and, "oh, god, want you inside me" is all she can think and there it is, against her leg, banging into her heel, the empty rum bottle. No, she thinks. Then yes.

If he were here it'd be different. It'd be him she was licking up and down, him she was taking in her mouth, wetting and slicking up so he could slide inside her, slow at first, so slow and easy, dragging it out, teasing, stroking his fingers over her clit again and again as he oh-god-so-slowly buried his cock in her cunt. It'd be him she begged to go faster and faster and "please, Clark, don't stop" as he pounded into her harder and harder and harder and…

But he isn't here, and she's drunk, so all she can do is imagine.


End file.
